


Waiting for the Sun

by AvoidingAverage



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, I love that that's a tag now, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inspired by Art, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Stregobor Being an Asshole (The Witcher), Winged Jaskier, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24563356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: Jaskier was dying.The confirmation came with each cramping, shallow breath and spots of grey drowning out the mottled stone walls that would become his tomb. After all the years he’d spent terrified of this moment, it was almost anticlimactic to realize he was too tired now to fight back any longer. He was dying. The world would continue without him.Blood dripped from his fingertips and formed erratic patterns against his own skin. Over the sound of his racing heart he could hear footsteps and murmured voices that made him want to vomit or rage in fury.They were watching him. He didn’t need to look up into the window to see the strange faces twisted into cruel smiles, pleased at his suffering. He hated them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 40
Kudos: 1104





	Waiting for the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written based on the AMAZING piece of art created by @seijishunart on tumblr. She's a fantastic artist and I've been blessed to have her artwork grace two of my fics. This is my humble attempt to repay her generosity.

[Lark Jaskier Art](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/seijishunart)

Jaskier was dying. 

The confirmation came with each cramping, shallow breath and spots of grey drowning out the mottled stone walls that would become his tomb. After all the years he’d spent terrified of this moment, it was almost anticlimactic to realize he was too tired now to fight back any longer. He was dying. The world would continue without him. 

Blood dripped from his fingertips and formed erratic patterns against his own skin. Over the sound of his racing heart he could hear footsteps and murmured voices that made him want to vomit or rage in fury. 

They were watching him. He didn’t need to look up into the window to see the strange faces twisted into cruel smiles, pleased at his suffering. He _hated_ them. Hated that they had finally succeeded where so many others had failed.

The cruel words and crueler fist from his family before he’d managed to break free of their hold.

Constant threats from muggers and bandits on the road.

The bottle hurled by an angry drunk that left a scar at his hairline.

Even the struggle of surviving on just what he could earn on fickle crowds was a risk.

None of them compared to _this_.

Jaskier curled his feet under him, trying to hide himself from their eyes even if there was no way to ever hide what they’d done. Even now he could feel the unnatural weight against his back, pulling at his weakened muscles. From the corner of his eyes, he can see the flashes of mottled brown and red that proved that Stregobor’s sick experiments had borne fruit. The drag and pull of the unnatural appendages made him want to _scream_. 

But the wings remained.

* * *

_“Quiet, little lark,” a voice as cruel as the jagged lines of pain down his back said over the sounds of his pleading, “I’m going to make you_ fly _.”_

* * *

  
  


He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in this place of misery and torment. There was no window to watch the sun rise and fall and meals were only erratically shoved under his door when he was on the edge of collapse. The few trips he’d taken out of his cell were always under the rough handling of the guards or Stregobor’s dizzying potions. He remembered the eyes that watched him from the cells along the way and the screams that rose in tandem with his own.

It was better thinking of that instead of the bodies he’d watched wheeled away to join the mass graves that surrounded the property.

Cuts and scrapes along his exposed skin throbbed from the last time he’d attempted to fight back and he shivered miserably beneath the large linen shirt that was his only covering. Jaskier forced himself to sit up slowly, glaring balefully of the chain that rattled around his neck to the bracket on the wall. He hissed out a breath between clenched teeth and forced himself to sit upright with his wings arched behind him.

At this angle he could see the exposed bone that made him want to shudder away at the unnatural paleness. Lower, he could see the brown and grey feather through the speckles of dried blood that reminded him of the fierce sparrows that had terrorized anything foolish enough to get near their nests. On good days, he wondered if one day he might be able to join them in the skies. On others, he just wished he could see the sky again.

He wanted to see the sun one more time. Feel the wind on his face. Smell something besides the death that lingered here.

Every day that passed was a reminder that his chance of actually managing even the smallest of his dreams. Each time Stregobor returned to pull apart his fragile hold he kept on his humanity, Jaskier could feel it become harder and harder to drag himself back from the brink. Most of the time it was pure spite that seemed to keep his heart beating.

* * *

_“You belong to me, my little lark.”_

_“No one else would ever want you now.”_

* * *

The sound of a shout and footsteps outside the cells jerked him away from his morose thoughts.

Jaskier looked up in time to see several of the guards usually stationed near the cells rush by in the direction of the outer corridors. His ears perked at the sound of more cries of alarm, causing many of the creatures housed here to begin to howl. Heart pounding, he gritted his teeth through the pain and forced himself to his feet. Already, he could smell the ash and rust of new blood down the hallway just out of sight.

Hobbling to the door of his cell, he circled his fingers around the bars as he had every day until even that had been taken from him. His wings dragged along behind him in the dust and muck of his cell, sending little shocks of pain with each step. A few feathers drifted to the ground with the movement, but he ignored them.

If Stregobor was going to die today, he wanted to see it.

Above him, footsteps pounded through the manor he’d only seen the night they’d dragged him down the hidden stairway to the cells below. The bruha a few cells over threw her head back and shrieked eagerly at the bloodlust that seemed to permeate the air. Once, he would have been terrified by being in such proximity to so many creatures that might have hunted him in the wild--now he was one of them.

The silence, when it finally fell, brought a new kind of tension.

Would Stregobor’s attackers come for the cells next? Or would they be left to slowly starve to death in the dark? He wasn’t sure which he would prefer.

Something crunched in the shadows left behind by the flickering torch just out of sight. Jaskier pressed his face against the rough metal, trying to tilt his head to be able to see anything more than the stone wall that had been his entire world for months. A growl from the cell to his right warned him a moment before a figure stepped cautiously into view.

Unlike the dead eyed men who’d been hired by Stregobor to keep his beasts alive, this man had the easy confidence and grace of someone who knew the limits of his body and how to use it with deadly skill. His armor was matted in a way to absorb the shadows instead of reflecting the firelight. Silvered hair was the only shock of color against the black backdrop and Jaskier shifted in surprise at the welcome sight of someone who might actually _save_ him.

Yellow eyes met his and he felt the breath leave his lungs.

A Witcher.

* * *

_What do Witcher’s do?_ He’d asked his mother once.

_They kill monsters, Jaskier._

* * *

  
  


“Witcher,” he said quietly, eyeing the two sword hilts peering over his shoulder.

Which would be used to kill him?

The warrior only grunted, sunshine eyes scanning over the cell door before he muttered a word too low for Jaskier to make out and he flinched at the screech of protest from the metal of the door a moment before it slumped inwards. 

When Jaskier scrambled back into the relative safety of the darkness of his cell, the Witcher moved forward with silent steps, eyes flicking around the space before returning to Jaskier. “Are you--”

And there it was. The moment the Witcher realized that the creature he was saving was no longer human.

Jaskier’s lips twisted into a weak imitation of a smile. He didn’t take another step back--running would be a waste of time and he refused to be cut down like a coward. “Is he dead?” he asked instead.

“Is who dead?” the Witcher replied, looking a little uneasy with the unexpected conversation. Jaskier wondered how often his prey took the time to speak to him.

“Stregobor.”

The other man nodded. “They all are.”

“Good,” Jaskier said firmly, tension flowing out of him in a slow breath. It almost made him lightheaded to think that he had his revenge after so long. He opened his mouth to speak again, but the Witcher beat him to it.

“What happened in this place?”

“Well, they never gave me the tour,” he replied with the ghost of his old humor, “but it seems like ol’ Stregobor wanted to craft his own creatures to toy with.” That quickly, the humor died and he had to concentrate to keep his voice even. “He gathered the living beasts in the other cells so he could gather blood and various other unsightly things to use in his own experiments. Occasionally, his hunters drag back a human to test out his newest ideas.”

It was far too light a description for all the horrors he’d seen here. The screams and cries of horror had drowned out the song lyrics he’d once imagined. Jaskier carefully didn’t think about the scratches that lined the inside of the wooden door to his cell or the fingernails that demonstrated the utter terror of its previous inhabitants. Stregobor had been proud that Jaskier had survived long enough to truly see the effects of his magic when so many of his fellows had died from shock and trauma. 

At least he would go to his death knowing that Stregobor no longer drew breath.

With that in mind, Jaskier tilted his head up until his neck was exposed. “I’ve heard you and your brethren are good at what you do. I won’t try to fight you. Just--” he drew in a shaky breath, “--tell the professors at Oxenfurt that Jaskier didn’t just run away on them. Please.”

There was a long silence broken only by the soft sound of a sword returning to his sheath.

“I’m not going to kill you, Jaskier.”

Relief and confusion made him lightheaded. He stared at the other man and shook his head slowly. “I--what? I don’t understand.”

“You’re a victim, not a monster,” the Witcher said with a scowl directed to the chain still around his neck. “I won’t hurt you.”

Jaskier watched him with jaded eyes as he stepped closer and reached out to touch the lock around his neck. Just being this close to another person made him want to collapse against him and soak up whatever warmth he could find. His trembling must have been noticeable because the Witcher reached out hesitantly. “May I?”

Eyes wide, he nodded. 

A moment later, the Witcher’s hand was settling onto the only unbroken part of his shoulder and sending warmth deep into his bones. The comforting touch after so many cruel hurts made him shiver and lean forward like he could sink into the safety and strength that radiated from the warrior. He felt his eyes burn and he looked to his bare feet to avoid letting the man see the tear carving a trail through the blood and dirt on his face.

The collar around his neck hit the ground with a clang and Jaskier swayed unsteadily, feeling lighter and heavier all at once. Exhaustion from the adrenaline of all that had happened dragged at the energy needed to keep his weakened body upright. Before he could stumble, he was surrounded by warmth and the scent of leather and sweat and something primal that made him want to sink even deeper.

“I’m sorry,” the Witcher rumbled, “I don’t have anything that could heal you right now, but I have friends that should be able to help.”

“You saved me,” Jaskier said, still in disbelief.

“Hmm.”

“But I’m a monster.”

Around his waist, the Witcher’s arm tightened and he began to lead a limping Jaskier through the rows of cells. Already his heart pounded a gleeful rhythm even as his mind struggled to accept this reality. Any moment he might open his eyes and find himself pinned to Stregobor’s table.

The Witcher growled deep in his throat. Somehow Jaskier still wasn’t afraid. “Stregobor delights in convincing others that they’re a monster to disguise his own perversions.”

Something about the words sounded far too familiar for a casual observer.

“Then it’s good that he’s dead.”

For the next several minutes, they were silent. Too wrapped up in their own thoughts to try to speak them.

Each step was its own spark of pleasure and pain. He could feel the trembling of his overtaxed muscles, but he stubbornly refused to acknowledge it. He didn’t want to risk testing the Witcher’s patience when he’d already helped so much. His breath was ragged in his chest, but he kept his eyes fixed on the end of the corridor and the freedom it promised.

When his ankle buckled, the Witcher reached out before Jaskier’s knees could hit the stone floor and scooped him up into his arms. The movement made his head spin and he anchored himself by grabbing at the thick armor that marked the man beside him as a warrior. He must have made some kind of noise of weak protest because the Witcher made a soft sound of censure.

“You’d never have made it up those stairs alone.”

Jaskier tried for one of the smiles that had earned his way into more than a few bedrooms and ignored the way it felt too sharp for his face now. “I usually wait until I know my suitor’s name before I allow myself to be swept off my feet.”

The Witcher’s lips twitched in a small smile that made Jaskier’s heart thud in a new rhythm. “I’m Geralt.”

Something about the way he said his name had Jaskier thinking about what he’d said about Stregobor and the vulnerable way he’d looked at Jaskier. “A pleasure to meet you, Geralt,” he murmured.

Geralt grunted, clearly not one for many words. 

Slowly, his eyes sank lower until it took all of his concentration to keep them open as Geralt picked his way through the ruined manor. It was only the thought of waking to find this was yet another fever dream that kept him stubbornly awake. Geralt didn’t seem to notice either way although his hands settled Jaskier firmly against his chest so there was no chance of him falling.

The smell of fresh night air stirred Jaskier out of his stupor and he sat up eagerly in Geralt’s arms, almost unsettling himself. He sucked in a breath of air deep enough that he nearly choked himself, eager to fill his lungs with something that wasn’t full of misery. He could feel his wings dragging over soft grass that was damp with dew. It hurt, but he’d rather chew glass than slow Geralt’s path towards the treelines.

Geralt must have sensed Jaskier’s fragile hold on consciousness and the level of pain he was still in because he stopped on the hill just outside the manor that overlooked the road and the forest beyond. Carefully, the Witcher settled Jaskier onto the cool grass in a way that kept his wings from being crumpled or injured further. He was shaking by that point and barely managed to hold the waterskin Geralt passed to him silently. The warrior settled onto the ground next to him, letting the peaceful silence settle like it could cleanse the blood from their souls.

“What…” Jaskier licked his lips and gathered his courage as the sky became pale with the dawn, “what should we do now?”

The Witcher hummed under his breath, golden eyes turning to the sky.

“Now we wait for the sun.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, leave me a kudos or a comment to let me know what you think. You can check out more of my fics on AO3 or come hang with me on tumblr @geraskierficrecs. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
